The Peace of Wild Things
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: A series of stand-alone stories attempting to explore why John loves/esteems/adores Sherlock. Entry three: Alchemy. Sherlock is injured on a case, and it's more serious than it first appears. Set some time after 'Hounds'.
1. The Vanishing Limp

So I think all my stories up to this point have been concerned predominantly with John's character and what it is about John that makes Sherlock adore him.

Now I'd like to explore the character of Sherlock in reference to John. I'm envisaging this to be a collection of stand-alone stories under the title _'The Peace of Wild Things'_ (inspired by the poem by Wendell Berry).

This first entry takes place during Hounds of Baskerville, after the scene in Dewar's Hollow where the identity of the real 'hound' is revealed.

* * *

**The Peace of Wild Things: The Vanishing Limp**

by Mally O'Jack

Sherlock and John ensure that an emotionally-exhausted Henry Knight is safely settled back at his house, whilst Lestrade makes a few phone calls to the local police force concerning the very-much-deceased Dr. Frankland.

They rendezvous back at the guest house. The chemical compound from Dewar's Hollow is still in their systems, and there is a tacit agreement among all three men that they will see out the rest of the night together. Lestrade drops hints to the innkeepers about dangerous dogs and prison sentences, and unsurprisingly Gary and Billy are only too happy to keep the bar open for them. And so John uses the fifty quid he 'won' from Sherlock to get the first round of drinks, and gradually the tension of the night's events melts away under the warm glow of the log fire.

* * *

Sherlock is off buying the second round when Lestrade clears his throat.

"So John. We've known each other a while now, haven't we?"

"Yes, yes we have," John says, clasping his hands between his knees and trying not to look behind him to see where Sherlock's got to with the drinks. He has a sinking feeling that he knows where this conversation is heading.

"I've been wanting to ask you something."

He sighs. "Look, me and Sherlock, we're just friends - "

Lestrade grimaces. "No, it's not about that."

"Oh."

"Thanks for clearing that up though."

"Not a problem." He is feeling rather hot next to the fire.

"No, what I wanted to ask you was – what happened to your leg?"

John blinks. "My – leg?"

"Yeah," Lestrade says, "see, when I first met you, you had this stick, and you were limping, badly. It took you ages to climb that staircase. Then a few hours later you pop up at Baker Street and you're fine. Like there's nothing wrong with your leg."

Sherlock returns then with the drinks.

"So," Lestrade continues, "I was wondering – why didn't you need that stick any more? What happened?"

"Well," John says, smiling self-consciously, rubbing at his brow with his thumb, playing for time. He likes Greg, he really does, but he is at a loss for what to say.

What happened? He's not fully sure himself.

_I was adrift, and he pulled me back._

_I was resigned to the darkness and then he bathed me in light._

_I was nothing and he made me everything. _

But he can't articulate this to Greg. He's not sure he even wants to. He looks helplessly at Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't disappoint.

"Someone's keying your car," Sherlock says.

Lestrade chokes on his pint. "What?"

"Someone's keying your car," Sherlock repeats slowly. "On the passenger side."

"Well why the hell didn't you stop them?" he says, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste to apprehend the vandal.

As he rushes off, John shakes his head in sympathy and reaches for his drink. "Didn't think it was that kind of place."

"It isn't," Sherlock says. "I did it."

Now it is John's turn to choke on his pint. "You keyed his car?" he says when he can breathe again.

Sherlock shrugs off the question. "Relax, I did it months ago."

"Oh, well that makes it all right then."

"It's next to the left rear wheel. Lestrade rarely takes back seat passengers; he would never have noticed it unless I pointed it out."

John continues to stare at him incredulously. "But why did you even do it in the first place?"

Sherlock gives him an arch look. "It was an investment. Just now I chose to cash it in. Aren't you grateful?"

John knows he should not be condoning this sort of behaviour. It is not morally or ethically acceptable to go round keying other people's cars. But yes, he is grateful to Sherlock for getting him off the hook with Lestrade, and actually he's more than a little touched by Sherlock's perceptiveness, and if he's really honest with himself, the whole thing is also just a tiny bit funny.

Sherlock continues to look at him with an amused expression, as if he can see what John is thinking, and so John swallows down any rebukes that spring to mind and instead settles for a dignified, "thank you."

"You're welcome, John."

Lestrade returns then, complaining loudly about the dirty great gash on the side of his car, and John and Sherlock placate him with beer and peanuts, and soon Lestrade forgets all about John's leg and where his limp went, which is just fine with John, because for him, it is an event immutable, fixed, an ever-present marker and reminder, and if Lestrade ever asks him about his leg again, he thinks he's got an answer now.

What happened?

Sherlock happened.

* * *

_Finis_


	2. Nightmares

So I was just thinking about that scene where John tells Stamford, "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Also, I wrote elsewhere about how John's friendship is liberating for Sherlock - but of course, it goes both ways. So this story is a result of me pondering these things.

This next entry is set after the events of 'A Study in Pink', specifically a couple of days after John shoots the cabbie. Sherlock may have cured John's limp, but the nightmares remain.

* * *

**The Peace of Wild Things: Nightmares**

by Mally O'Jack

It was the same dream. Always, the same dream.

_The overwhelming roar of metal through air that made his guts and courage turn slithery inside, and the human noise and the inhuman noise and the grass, the sweet-smelling grass dancing lazily in the warm breeze and the bloke on the ground opposite him, the flesh-over-skull bloke who was dying, and the grass turning red, blood-y-hell -_

He woke with a cry and pushed himself out the armchair, blinking, gasping, his heart hammering nineteen to the dozen.

The creepy skull on the mantelpiece was grinning at him.

The bizarre animal skull on the wall opposite appeared to be in on the joke too.

"John?"

He jerked his head round.

Behind Sherlock, the garish painting of the skull scrutinised him, and suddenly there were _too many skulls_, and he staggered towards the kitchen, his dream clinging to him like a shroud, and he was making funny little gaspy noises that Harry used to make down the phone when she was drunk and upset, and he was searching for a clean glass, a mug, _anything _in this godforsaken kitchen but they were all dirty, and he slammed the cupboard door shut.

"Sod it. _Sod. It."_

"Problem?" Sherlock called from the sofa.

He closed his eyes.

_I cannot deal with actual living people right now._

He bolted through the side door out through the landing and into the bathroom. Shut the door, but of course, no lock. _Perfect_. Both hands either side of the sink. Staring down into the plughole. Just staring.

* * *

"This isn't working," he informed the man still languishing on the sofa, swathed in dressing gown, laptop balanced on his torso as he typed.

"Hmm?" Sherlock said, not looking up.

"Me, living here, with you. It's not working."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock said, continuing to type.

He clenched his jaw. "Because -" he ticked off the reasons on his fingers - "we barely know each other. And you're always here, and I'm always here, and I need my own space."

"To do what? Wallow? Because that worked so well for you before."

He stared at him. "You honestly don't get it, do you?"

"What's there to get?"_ Tap tap._ "You had a nightmare - about your time in the army, I'm assuming."_ Double click._ "People died, you didn't, and now you want to sit around and wallow about things you can't change." _More tapping._ "So if you must wallow, stay here and do it, it's so much more convenient; cheaper for a start, and the Jubilee Line's just around the corner."

He had to fight the urge to whip the damn laptop off Sherlock and throw it at the wall. "I'm not 'wallowing'."

"Fine. Moping, brooding, feeling sorry for yourself - "

John turned away, laughing humourlessly.

"My point is," Sherlock said, raising his voice, "why can't you do all those things here at Baker Street? I'm not going to alter my behaviour just because you're here, so why should you alter your behaviour on account of me?"

John stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. "Because," he said, turning towards his flatmate who was now looking at him in earnest from the sofa, "because..." And then he frowned. He honestly could not think of a single good answer to Sherlock's question. Whilst his mouth was opening and closing like a fish, Sherlock went back to his typing. "Spectacular rebuttal. Really convincing."

He folded his arms. "Are you always this insensitive?"

"Yes." Then with a flick of his wrist, Sherlock closed the laptop screen and sprang to his feet. "Let's go."

"What?"

Sherlock took him by the elbow and started escorting him towards the stairs. "Your proximity to the kitchen indicates a subconscious desire to put the kettle on, but since I used up the last of the milk while you were asleep we need to pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson's."

"Hang on," John said, shaking him off, "we can't just go and nick Mrs. Hudson's milk. She's an old lady."

"Who said anything about stealing?" Sherlock said, continuing to herd him down the stairs, "she asked us to 'pop our heads round' from time to time. She loves it. She's always trying to stuff cake down me. Wants to fatten me up."

"Wait," John said. They came to a stop outside Mrs. Hudson's door. "We're really doing this. Me and you. The flatmate thing."

"Apparently so." Sherlock rapped smartly on the door. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"You're in your dressing gown," John pointed out.

"We don't stand on ceremony here at Baker Street." Sherlock shot him a grin before the door opened and Mrs. Hudson greeted them both with a cluck of delight.

_Finis_


	3. Alchemy

Entry three. Sherlock is injured on a case, and it's more serious than it first appears. Set some time after 'Hounds'. Not sure I've fully grasped what makes John tick, though I feel I'm getting closer. Any thoughts or insights you have would be very welcome.

**The Peace of Wild Things: Alchemy**

by Mally O'Jack

_"In everyone there sleeps_

_A sense of life lived according to love."_

- from 'Faith Healing' by Philip Larkin

* * *

"Sherlock, it's me. It's John. Please open your eyes."

There's no response, although he wasn't really expecting one. He shifts, trying to mould his back into the hard plastic of the hospital chair. Obviously he's never going to get comfortable. He's sat on this damned thing for three days now; he should just accept that it's going to wreck his back.

He gets up and stands over Sherlock's bed. Can't help glancing at the monitors; it's a habit. Or a nervous twitch. Looks back at Sherlock again. "Sherlock, please. For me. Open your eyes."

He changes tack. "Sherlock, there's a client! We've got a case! Come on - "

An auxiliary walks in at that point, and he shuts up and sits back down, a little sheepish. The auxiliary checks the cannula in Sherlock's arm, goes through the GCS checks, makes a note in the chart. He doesn't speak, but the look he gives John is one of pity, amusement even. A look that plainly says, _don't you have some place better to be? _

No, John wants to say, actually I haven't, because this _brilliant_ man is lying in a hospital bed with a fractured skull and he's been like this for three days now, and at first they didn't think it was that serious but he's not waking up and soon we'll have to start thinking about the possibility of brain damage and ventilators and scary stuff like that, and I know I'm in your way and probably making your life difficult but _where else do you expect me to bloody be?_

Except the auxiliary left the room a long time ago, and John's been arguing with thin air, and his blood pressure has gone up significantly, and so he inhales slowly through his nose and exhales out through his mouth. In and out. In and out. In time with the beep of Sherlock's heart rate monitor.

"You're worrying the doctors," he informs Sherlock. "I bet you're wondering how I could tell. Well, here you go, the science of deduction according to John Watson. Might come in handy in a case one day." Idly he picks up the chart that the auxiliary was writing on, flicks through it to see what he's written.

"As I was saying. So when a doctor's worried, they repeat themselves, like they're trying to convince you of something. And they going overboard on the idioms. See, they don't want to commit themselves, so they start talking in generalisations. And if you call them on it, they tend to get narky."

He thought back to that morning, the meeting with the consultant._ "It's too early to say yet...it could go either way...we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."_ It was funny how some doctors could conduct entire conversations without actually referring to their patients.

Of course, it was entirely possible that the consultant had been worried because Mycroft was at the meeting too. Mycroft in concerned big brother mode was enough to put anyone off their game.

"Yeah, Mycroft wasn't having any of it. You would've found it really funny. He kept making notes as the consultant was talking, doing all these mind games on him. I don't think he realised they were on the same side...

Sherlock, please open your eyes."

He drags his chair closer to the bed, and he does something he's never done before. He takes Sherlock's hand and starts to trace tiny patterns on the back of his hand and wrist, as if the tickling sensation will be enough to make Sherlock wake up and pull his arm away and tell John to stop being annoying.

But there is no reaction from Sherlock. He continues to lie there, blank and sallow and grey, with purple bruises under his eyes and neat stitches on his brow. The nurses cleaned him up good and proper, considering. Washed his hair too by the look of it.

"You know, Lestrade dropped by earlier. Didn't say much. Left some grapes and a tin of Quality Streets." He stops drawing on Sherlock's hand and looks over guiltily at the too-small rubbish bin where the empty tin has been wedged in. "Except Mrs. Hudson and I ate them all. She likes the pink ones, and I'd missed breakfast. Sorry."

Sherlock's wrist is very thin. He closes his hand around it, and his fingers and thumb meet. He can feel Sherlock's pulse underneath, slow and steady.

"I think you scared him in that alleyway."

* * *

**Three days ago**

It is night time. It is raining, and John hopes the rain will wash away the overpowering smell of urine and beer in this godforsaken alley where Sherlock is lying, his head pillowed on John's lap whilst John tries to staunch the blood that is pulsing stubbornly from Sherlock's forehead, and Lestrade is holding his coat over Sherlock's face to keep him dry, and Donovan and the gang are cuffing the third criminal as the discarded tire iron lies not three feet away, its job done.

See, there were only meant to be two criminals. Not a third, barrelling out of the darkness as Sherlock stoops to pull John to his feet.

And so they're waiting for the ambulance, and then suddenly Sherlock starts fitting, and it is Lestrade who must lean over Sherlock and use all his strength to push down on Sherlock's shoulders whilst John stabilises his head, and Lestrade looks at John briefly, fear in his eyes, and maybe he's looking for reassurance but evidently there's something in John's expression that makes Lestrade swear under his breath.

* * *

**Now**

"Well, on the bright side, at least we can add a tire iron to our Cluedo list." This was something he'd made up one day when Sherlock was being exceptionally bored and nagging at John for a Cluedo re-match. John had suggested creating a modern version of the game with 21st century murder weapons (because really, who had candlesticks lying around these days?), and it had become kind of a running joke between them. Sherlock, with an enthusiasm that John found unnerving, had immediately suggested a Black Widow spider smuggled into the bedsheets of the unsuspecting houseguest.

His stomach rumbles then, and he realises that he is actually starving. It is getting on for nine o'clock, and so reluctantly he leaves Sherlock and heads down to the hospital canteen to scrounge some dinner.

When he returns, mug of tea in hand, he is half-expecting Sherlock to be sat up in bed.

"_John! There you are. I have a headache and I want to go home." _

_He sets down his mug; in his haste the tea slops over the side. "You're awake!" He is grinning. _

"_Obviously. Yes. Now take me home." _

"_I'll buzz for the doctor. No, don't get up just yet. Do you remember what happened?"_

And so on.

But when he enters the room, Sherlock is still lying there exactly as before. There is a nurse changing the fluid bag.

He swallows down his disappointment (hope is a cruel bastard) and takes his place again in the plastic seat, the one that does his back in and that feels almost like a second home.

The nurse looks at him. "Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid."

"I'm his flatmate. His brother cleared it with the consultant."

The nurse refers to her ward notes. "Doctor Watson?"

"That's me."

Perhaps he's looking more done in than he thought, because the nurse's expression softens. "Do you want a cushion for that chair?"

"Please."

"Wait here a moment."

_I'm his flatmate._ How strange it is that one's life can be defined according to another's. He remembers Sally Donovan asking who he was, and his reply; "I'm nobody." Now, he is Sherlock's flatmate, Sherlock's friend, Sherlock's blogger.

Another memory; Lestrade, at his very first crime scene, again asking, and Sherlock's answer; "He's with me." As if he only exists in relation to Sherlock.

"_And how do you feel about that?" _he imagines Ella saying.

He shrugs. Doesn't matter how he feels about it. It's the truth.

The nurse comes back with a cushion.

"Ta." Now the seat is marginally more comfy.

_You could just go home, you know, _Sherlock's voice is saying in his head._ There's no point in you being here._

"You might need me," he says out loud.

_Why would I need you? I'm practically comatose. _

"I don't know. You might wake up."

_Doubtful. Go home. I don't need you. _

"That's a total lie and you know it. You need me all the time." He can feel himself getting worked up again. Funny how Sherlock can provoke that reaction even when unconscious. "You need me to help you pay the rent, you need me to entertain you, to send your text messages, to run interference with Mycroft, to clean up after you - "

He is getting properly into the swing of it now. "You need me to make you eat, and to go to crime scenes with you, and to smooth things over at the Yard when you're being an idiot. You need me to shoot cabbies and scary dogs for you. You need me to patch you up when you do something stupid; this most recent case being a prime example. You need me to tell you how amazing you are 'cause no one else does." He takes a deep breath.

"And that's okay. I don't mind doing those things." He thinks about that. "Well, most of those things. You're a grown man and it wouldn't kill you to do the dishes once in a while. But yeah, it's okay that you need me. It's more than okay. 'Cause it sounds stupid, but I need you to need me."

He leans forward, as if the force of his argument alone can compel Sherlock to wake up.

"And it's not just about me having this general desire to feel needed. I mean, Harry needs me. So do my patients. It's not about that. It's about me needing _you_, Sherlock Holmes, to need _me_." He gets up, and starts to pace.

"See, the way I think about it is – if I came to the end of my days, and God, or whoever, asks me how I've spent my time on this earth, I would say that I was your friend. And honestly, I think that would be enough. 'Cause being your friend, hanging around with you, might just be the most significant, worthwhile thing I'll ever do.

He looks sideways at his unconscious friend. "I bet you don't understand any of this, do you? All right, I'll try and put it in a way that'll make sense for you." He looks around for suitable props, but it's a silly idea because Sherlock's eyes are closed, and so he settles for hand gestures.

"See, we're like two chemical elements - and yes I do know what I'm talking about thank you very much because you may be the chemistry genius but I did have to know quite a lot of chemistry myself to get through med school. Anyway, so before we met, we were like two elements, and now we've been mixed together and somehow we've been changed irrevocably. And together we're making something new and I have no idea what that is." He lets his hands fall to his side. "And that scares me a bit, if I'm honest. But I can't wait to find out. So you see, Sherlock, we're not done yet. Not by a long shot."

His voice is starting to get ever so slightly shaky, and he is tired, and his back hurts, and still Sherlock remains unconscious.

Drained, he sinks back into the chair.

"Sherlock. Open your eyes."

* * *

It is ironic that, just as John finally falls asleep in the most uncomfortable chair known to man, he is woken by the sound of Sherlock's heart monitor speeding up. And then -

"John?"

_Finis_


End file.
